


pour me another (hold me like no other)

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Category: Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking to Cope, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting to Know Each Other, Heavy Drinking, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant - See The Future DLC, Not Fable 3 Compliant, One Night Stands, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Selectively Mute Character, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: The defeat of Lucien left Sparrow feeling quite useless.Feeling useless left Sparrow dependent on even small amounts of alcohol to feel anything else.Feeling dependent on alcohol led to a bad decision, which led to him falling in love.Falling in love looped itself in with the feeling of uselessness, and the whole cycle started again on a new level.
Relationships: Hero of Bowerstone & Reaver (Fable), Hero of Bowerstone/Reaver (Fable)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "Pour Me" by Hollywood Undead  
> i actually got this idea initially like maybe ten days ago while listening to "The Diary" by Hollywood Undead, so there's two HU songs to thank for this lmao
> 
> anyways, hope y'all enjoy! i had fun writing it, cuz i never really seem to explore any version of Sparrow who just, like, couldn't cope as well as the canon version apparently did? i also took a few liberties with how things went in-game and post-game because i'm the author and i'm allowed to play with things to make them work the way i want them to lol

The days since Lucien’s defeat, and subsequently the days since clearing out the remaining bandit camps he could get to, had dragged for Sparrow.

Now, that was not to say that he wasn’t thankful for the time to breathe and relax. He was. He’d been fighting day in and day out since he left the Camp ten years ago, so a break was  _ always _ appreciated, but…

Well.

This wasn’t a break, was it?

Bandits stayed well away from every town and rural area he was known to patrol, Lucien was dead, Hammer was in the Northern Wastes finding her peace, Reaver and Garth were in Samarkand and likely trying to kill each other, and Sparrow was… Here.

Wandering silently through Albion by himself.

No sister, no dog, not even Theresa’s voice coming through the seal on occasion to nudge him in the right direction or ensure he was taking care of himself appropriately. He hadn’t heard a word from her since he’d left the Spire all those weeks ago. Wouldn’t be hearing from Hammer for the rest of his life, probably, unless he found a way up to the Wastes and survived the journey. Wasn’t close to Garth, wasn’t fond of Reaver, had no way to get to Samarkand regardless.

He came to a stop on the side of the road somewhere between Brightwood and Bower Lake ― if he continued forth, he could make it to the Camp and rest for the night in his old caravan, but… Hm.

He didn’t think this was a time where he was interested in being near people, despite the loneliness clawing through his chest like the steady tearing of a balverine’s slashes.

He thought tonight might be a night where being left alone was the best course of action.

Everyone in Albion knew him, knew him by  _ name,  _ even if they all called him Lionheart, but they didn’t  _ know  _ him. And being around them when he wanted a moment,  _ just _ a quiet moment and then a brand new adventure so at least he felt useful, didn’t sound pleasant. Being praised for things he had done just didn’t sit right when he felt…

Useless.

This wasn’t a  _ break _ from adventure, from being a Hero.

His heroing days were over. They were behind him.

Sure, there would always be another villain sooner or later, but to be quite frank he didn’t see there being another one in Albion soon enough for him to be of any real use in fighting them. After the Lucien debacle and after Sparrow had made a point of clearing out as many bandit camps in Albion as he could feasibly reach, including the whole of the Bandit Coast, anything terribly untoward happening in the world would not be happening within his reach.

Sparrow would say that much for the people of Albion, even the most ill-intentioned of them ― they may be rather dim-witted at best, but generally they knew their limits, and they knew to avoid facing off against anyone who could surpass those limits with ease.

Still.

He wished they didn’t.

Sort of.

He was glad Lucien was dead, and that his effort to reduce the number of bandit camps had paid off, don’t get him wrong.

He was just…

Sulking, he supposed.

Sulking sounded like the right word.

He sat himself down off the path, in the foliage, where he’d likely be mistaken for a dead body sooner or later if he wasn’t up before noon the next day, and leaned against one of the tall, thin birch trees there. Tilting his head up, all he could see were leaves and the faintest speckles of sky and starlight high above him.

Something old and mournful settled over him, and unprompted he found his mind wondering if the sky was still so beautiful, even when obscured, in the afterlife. If Rose had ever seen a sky so pretty in her life, or in her death.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden tears, sighing weakly in an attempt not to devolve into a crying fit on the side of the road in the middle of the night. He’d fallen far in the weeks since Lucien’s death, but he had not yet fallen  _ that _ far.

He had  _ standards. _

Still, some of those had bent or broken recently.

Thinking of which, he reached blindly into his bag until his hand closed around the neck of a bottle.

Just a bottle of Bowerstone Brown, nothing special ― not even something he’d wasted money on, as it had been given to him.

Yet, it felt so wrong to touch it. To have it on his person.

He’d always thought alcohol was below his standards, before.

But tonight…

Tonight, he thought maybe he could indulge the nudging in his head. Just this once. Didn’t everyone say drinking made you feel better? Aside from the hangover, of course.

He could use something to make him feel better, even if it was only temporary.

By sunrise he’d feel better with or without it, but sleep would be difficult without crying at this juncture.

He fingered the neck of the bottle a moment longer, considering, before sighing and pulling it out of the bag.

He leaned his head back down, peeking teary eyes open.

He examined the bottle for a long moment, but ultimately he sighed again, braced for the disgusting taste he’d been warned of in the past, and popped the top of the bottle off.

_ Bottoms up, _ he thought.

And he took a hearty swig and nearly gagged, but he’d drank potions that tasted worse and so powered through without much issue.

He lowered the bottle, licking his lips, and considered the taste. It’d take a while longer for any feeling to hit him, but he felt… Warm already. It had burned on the way down, like a more high-end Will potion was prone to do, and it had been oddly pleasant in the familiarity. The warmth settled in his gut, radiating gently outward.

Not awful.

Not as awful as he’d expected, at least.

He swallowed, licked his lips again.

Breathed out slow, and raised the bottle again.

He drained the rest of the bottle and pressed it back into his bag to be disposed of later.

Now maybe he’d actually be able to get some sleep tonight.

* * *

It took another three days to reach Bowerstone and dispose of the bottle, and by then he had the unsettling and frankly rather upsetting urge to buy more beer. He knew now it was a taste he could stomach, and everyone he knew (save for Garth and Theresa, if even them) drank so it wasn’t as if he really had anything but bragging rights for not doing it. And bragging was  _ definitely _ beneath his standards…

But he didn’t want to start drinking to try and drown his problems.

He didn’t want to be that person.

He tugged nervously at the end of his ponytail, fingering the silky blond hair while he pointedly walked  _ past _ the Cow and Corset rather than into it. He had an exceptionally heavy pocketful of gold and it wouldn’t do to tempt himself anymore than he had to.

He didn’t need to become a drunkard.

He didn’t need to live up to every single stereotype of a washed up celebrity.

He didn’t need to be Reaver, just without the thievery and the promiscuity.

So he kept walking.

He kept walking until he arrived in Fairfax Gardens, a little further from the temptation of drinking away his sorrows, and found the Castle now had, of all things, a For Sale sign.

Finding the price to be no small thing, he nearly reeled away bodily.

But… Well. The sale would probably benefit the whole of Albion, wouldn’t it? That was one million gold back into the economy. Back into the pockets, eventually, of the working men and women he’d tried so hard to save.

And he had an exceptionally heavy pocketful of gold.

He found the clerk in charge of the sale and deposited, straight-faced, one million gold exactly onto his table.

A better use of his money, certainly, than buying beer.

Besides.

He had always sort of wanted to live in the castle. If nothing else he could stay the night there.

Maybe have the whole thing demolished here in a couple of months, and something a little more reasonable built in its place. He wasn’t sure.

* * *

In the end, he spent the night.

Then the next night.

Then the next.

And on the fourth night, he could no longer argue himself out of going to buy beer because he had  _ nothing to occupy his time with  _ and he felt  _ useless. _

So he went.

And he bought beer.

And he drank himself, quite happily, really, under the table.

The bandit attack on the first night had been the most exciting thing that had happened since he cleared out the camps, but it had been, like everything else, painfully brief.

Almost as soon as he cracked his eyes open on the fifth day in the castle, hangover pounding in his head and rolling in his gut, he found himself reaching for another bottle. He didn’t want to deal with this. He didn’t want to deal with anything.

He was tired, and he wasn’t of any use to anyone right now  _ anyway, _ and what was the use in fighting off something he was inevitably going to succumb to anyway?

So he was a drunk now, he supposed.

Whatever.

Certainly not the worst possible outcome.

* * *

He spent four years in the castle, occasionally venturing out back into Albion to deal with bandits or whatever menial labor the people requested of him, before Reaver made his return to Albion from Samarkand. And, despite having a clear enough head to know it was a bad idea, Sparrow chose to mark the occasion.

He traveled to Bloodstone, met Reaver in the Mansion that he’d bought just to piss Reaver off, and they had a hell of a fight. And it felt  _ wonderful. _

And if it ended with them on the floor, tangled together, tasting blood and sweat… Then that was how it ended.

“I must admit,” Said Reaver, conversationally, in the morning when they found each other both still in the Mansion, “Last night was quite  _ fun, _ don’t you agree?”

Sparrow nearly snorted, but instead raised a brow to ask what exactly Reaver was trying to get at.

“I wouldn’t mind a repeat some time, is all I mean,” Reaver waved his hands dismissively, “You’re quite something. Not that I expected less of such a luminary figure.”

Sparrow did snort, that time, but nevertheless, with a voice cracked from disuse, “Fight me in my castle next time, then. My rugs are much more comfortable.”

Reaver choked on a laugh. “My, my! I may just have to.”

But Sparrow didn’t really expect that he would.

After all, Fairfax Castle was a long way off from Reaver’s precious Bloodstone… Both in distance and in principle.

* * *

Color Sparrow quite surprised the night he came back, nearly a year later, to his castle after some menial task, intent on drinking away the instant feeling of uselessness he felt upon having completed said task, to find Reaver sitting at his dining room table already nursing a goblet of wine.

He raised a brow at the man, fetching himself a much less dignified-looking bottle of beer and taking a swig straight from it as usual. Reaver, faking politeness, waited until he’d finished taking that swig to answer the unspoken question.

“I’m taking you up on your offer, dear Hero.” He said, “Should it still stand, that is.”

Sparrow snorted.

Swigged the rest of his beer in one go and hauled Reaver up out of the chair by the collar of his shirt, which just made Reaver laugh.

He liked the way Reaver laughed.

He wanted to hear it again.

They struggled their way up the stairs into the throne room, shoving and pulling and swatting each other until Sparrow managed to get Reaver onto the long carpet in the middle of the room and push him down onto it.

They didn’t fight so much as they just briefly struggled with each other until Reaver inevitably, out of breath and looking  _ delighted _ by that fact, ceded to being held down and fucked senseless. And Sparrow took a lot more pleasure than he likely should have in holding him down by his throat and doing exactly that.

“I don’t suppose you’ve a spare bedroom?” Reaver asked, when they were done, neck littered with bites and bruises that would likely fade by morning, face relaxed and pleased, with a hint of amusement.

Sparrow rolled his eyes and dragged both of them to their feet, repeating, “Spare bedroom,” under his breath as if it were a curse.

Reaver laughed, really laughed, and Sparrow felt warm ― whether that was due to the alcohol or how much he liked the sound he didn’t know. Nor did he particularly care.

(Though he knew, reasonably, that after the last five years a single beer wouldn’t make him feel so warm.)

And while he’d been hoping to pair the booze with something to eat after the day he’d had, he had no intentions of dragging Reaver down into the kitchens to get anything. Not now. He just wanted to lie down, frankly.

And lie down he did, flopping face first onto the mattress.

Reaver laughed again, but as soon as the bed dipped under his weight it turned into a groan.

“I thought  _ my _ mattress was lavish,” He said, sinking into the material with a sigh of relief, “This is almost criminal.”

“You would know,” Sparrow joked, from where he lay with his head turned to watch him.

Reaver flashed him a cunning smile, and Sparrow tried not to falter under that look. Tried not to feel anything. The last thing he needed to pair with his already bad drinking habit was the need to forget he’d fallen in love with  _ Reaver _ of all people.

* * *

Reaver was gone in the morning, inevitably.

Sparrow hadn’t expected him to stay, so he wasn’t sure why he felt betrayed.

* * *

He found himself sober less and less often as the days went by following that encounter. Trying to bury the feeling of betrayal alongside the feeling of uselessness. Trying to bury any feelings he had for the scoundrel before they turned into something more. Something he couldn’t get away from.

But inevitably he found himself, disgustingly enough, pining for the man. Wishing he was there.

It made him want to puke, frankly.

The next time Reaver showed up, uninvited, Sparrow was already drunk.

“Starting early tonight, aren’t we?” Reaver teased.

Sparrow rolled his eyes and offered a bottle to the pirate king.

Reaver accepted it.

A few bottles and some banter in, Reaver asked if maybe they should move upstairs.

“Break in that bed of yours,” He said, winking. Grinning.

Sparrow wanted to strangle him ― but Reaver was immortal, and more than that? He liked being strangled.

And, more than even that, Sparrow wasn’t sure he could ever squeeze hard enough to kill him anyway. Wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do it.

He liked him too much.

So he just rolled his eyes again, pulled Reaver to him by his shirt collar, and kissed him with more teeth and tongue than lips.

Got up while Reaver was giving him a pleased, though somewhat surprised, look, and headed for the bedroom.

Reaver followed him without question.

Sparrow let Reaver win the brief struggle this time, settling for throwing his arms around the despicable man’s neck and yanking him into another kiss. By God he was going to get some kisses out of this, if nothing else. Kisses so he could really suffer later, when Reaver was gone again.

“Rather touchy-feely drunk,” Reaver murmured, into his lips, “Aren’t you?”

“Well excuse me,” Sparrow murmured back in a low rumble, “If I like being kissed while I’m being fucked.”

Reaver chuckled, nudging his legs further apart and settling between them. “I’m not even fucking you yet.”

“Hurry up, then.”

“Pushy…” He clicked his tongue, teasing, but thankfully chose not to waste any more of Sparrow’s time.

He obligingly leaned down into another kiss as they got truly started, and Sparrow let himself get lost in the sensations. There was nothing else he really needed to focus on, other than laying there and looking pretty, as Reaver had told him the first time.

And he seemed to be doing a fine job, considering the words Reaver uttered between kisses.

At least he was still good for one thing, even if it was just spreading his legs for the pirate king.

And looking pretty while he was doing it.

* * *

Reaver was gone again in the morning.

Because of course he was.

And Sparrow was angry with himself for being upset about it.

* * *

Angry with himself though he was in the following weeks, Sparrow would admit that he understood precisely why he was upset, and precisely why he had fallen for Reaver of all of the people in Albion, in the  _ world _ even, he could have fallen for. And he hated that as much as he hated being in love with him, and hated being upset that he left before Sparrow woke up both of the most recent times.

And, as for the reasons he had fallen in love with Reaver, there were a few.

Primarily, and most embarrassingly, was that Reaver was very openly, very  _ obviously, _ totally emotionally unavailable ― Sparrow liked that. He liked it  _ a lot. _ Because, in his experience? Everyone who would throw themselves at him readily, everyone who would gladly marry him, would just as easily be swayed to someone else. Someone, for instance, such as Reaver. Someone attractive and impressive was all it took to shift the whims of anyone in Albion. And while Reaver  _ clearly _ had an attraction to him, like many of Albion’s residents did at this point, and clearly enjoyed his company, there had never even been a question of a real relationship being possible.

Reaver had shown Sparrow who he was and what he was about right from the start.

In addition, Sparrow did have a tendency to sway his own interests toward males, and especially so toward males who were capable of besting him in combat even once. Reaver wasn’t at all the epitome of physical strength, but he had what it took to knock Sparrow’s blade, then his gun, from his hands and send him careening to the floor. That was enough for Sparrow.

And, finally, nearly as embarrassing as the first reason and twice as likely to never be spoken aloud, was that Sparrow had, stupidly, given up his virginity to that man that night in his mansion.

He was not necessarily bothered by this fact ― he had to lose it eventually, and if it had to be anyone it may as well be someone like Reaver, who knew what he was doing. It was simply that, should Sparrow ever deign to mention it out loud, well…

Word spread far too quickly for his liking, in Albion, and he was not eager to have Reaver himself in possession of that knowledge. It would go right to his over-inflated ego and pompous, too big head.

No thanks.

So, drinking heavily as ever to rid himself of the thoughts, Sparrow went into the following weeks with his head held as high as it could be and spent what spare few moments of sobriety he allowed himself trying to get  _ something _ done in his country.

The people were jokingly calling him their King, now, to which he typically responded with polite, tight-lipped smiles and uncomfortable chuckles, but it did make it somewhat easier to find things that needed done. Even those jokingly calling him King figured, as their Hero, he had a duty to be fulfilling. Fights to be winning, damsels to be saving, those sorts of things.

He reveled, weeks after the encounter with Reaver, in the sudden influx of busywork.

He felt he was accomplishing something again at long last as he traveled the roads and did this or that thing in this or that town until finally,  _ finally, _ he found himself back at the Castle and exhausted… Ready, by all means, for a strong drink and a night of rest in his bed.

He’d really underestimated how much better rested he always felt after sleeping in that bed, even when he was so hungover that twitching his fingers or toes shot lances of pain through his head… A couple of nights sleeping on the ground again really drove the point home.

The castle was empty when he returned, as he’d expected, and he was glad.

Had Reaver deigned to appear tonight, he may well have sent the man packing without so much as a second thought.

If not for his own hurting heart, then for his aching body.

He trudged up the stairs, laid down.

He recalled nothing more until he woke the next morning and realized he had forgotten to have that strong drink before bed.

Ah, well.

Couldn’t hurt to not drink for once.

And it wasn’t as if, when he rolled out of the bed and pottered his way down to the kitchen, he wasn’t going to spend the entire day drinking after his morning cup of booze.

Still, the time it took for the warmth of the booze to spread through him after breakfast brought an ache to his chest that was regrettably one he knew very personally. An ache not caused by only one thing ― caused, instead, by many.

By Reaver, by being alone at all, by having nothing to do until the next person came seeking him or he felt up to going and finding something again…

He heaved a sigh, tipping back a bottle and draining it, and thought maybe today he should just go back to bed. Not waste his own time or his booze.

Just go back to bed and sleep the feeling away.

… He was smart enough to realize it didn’t work that way, but desperate enough to hope it might.

He went back to bed.


	2. Reaver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have an odd amount of fun writing from reaver's pov, so i hope y'all enjoy reading it
> 
> i wrote a weirdly large amount of this while listening to "Bad Habits" by The Federal Empire and "Cult of Dionysus" by The Orion Experience because they give me an odd amount of Reaver feels

Reaver was a great many things, the majority of them bad, and he was as aware of this fact as he was the fact that he could sway nearly anyone into bed with him.

One of the primary things that he was, particularly as of late, he’d found, was exceedingly fond of the little Hero who had killed Lucien.

Sparrow, or Lionheart, or whatever they were calling him these days, was a _hell_ of a spitfire ― clearly was from the moment Reaver met him, even in spite of the way his blonde hair had been stuck to his forehead, exhaustion exuding from his very form, clothes clinging from his time in the marshes. There had been a fire in his eyes, overwhelming the dark circles beneath them and the neutral frown pulling his lips. He had been on a _mission_ and Reaver had liked that.

But then, of course, Lucien had been defeated, and that tired hero with the silky flaxen hair and luminous blue eyes had scarcely so much as glanced at him as he was teleported away to Samarkand.

Reaver hadn’t expected to run into him again.

But after the whole Garth debacle, on his return to Bloodstone, he’d found his Mansion under the ownership of someone else. Of who else but the smirking, flaxen haired hero sitting before the fire, feet propped up on the table as he met Reaver’s gaze and took a pointed drink of beer.

It had been a challenge, a pointed and calculated insult, and Reaver had taken the bait without a second thought.

And having Sparrow laid out beneath him on the floor, flushed, hair messy, lip bleeding and a dark bruise beginning to bloom across his cheekbone even as he continued to bite and claw at him… It was something special. The fight had been thrilling, as few things were these days, and that Sparrow hadn’t lost insomuch as he’d been caught off-guard and immediately got back to fighting, was _still_ fighting, was…

Ha.

He liked it.

A lot.

Because though Sparrow was still fighting then, it wasn’t out of any desire to stop what they were doing ― in fact, any hesitance Reaver _may_ have indulged in was met with a steely glare and a rasped hiss to ‘finish what he started’.

Those first hints of a voice from the hero that wasn’t a grunt or a hum had wrapped around Reaver almost as tightly as his hand wrapped around the younger’s neck.

He wrenched more words and sounds from him before the night was up, and in the morning he, shock of shocks, _spoke a full sentence to him._

“Fight me in my castle next time, then,” He’d intoned in response to Reaver’s suggestion they have a repeat sometime, voice low and dripping with promise and eyes alight with the fire they had, Reaver now noticed, lacked the night before, “My rugs are much more comfortable.”

A subtle insult to Reaver and his choice in interior design though it clearly was, he had to admit his attention had been caught. Not just by the ‘castle’ bit. He _had_ heard someone had bought and taken up residence in Lucien’s old abode while he was gone ― it was no surprise to him if it happened to be Sparrow who had done it. What better secondary revenge, after all?

“My, my!” He’d laughed, startled and intrigued, “I may just have to!”

It had gotten him a look not far off from ‘fondly exasperated’ ― perhaps a cousin to it that was closer to ‘annoyed but amused’. And then Sparrow had departed and Reaver had spent the next year or so re-establishing himself in his home.

When they met again, within the castle’s dining hall, Sparrow had seemed surprised… But not unpleasantly so. And at being informed Reaver was taking him up on his offer, that look of ‘annoyed but amused’ had returned, accompanied by a snort. And then he’d swigged what remained of his beer, hauled Reaver up by the collar of his shirt as if they were both common drunks in a bar, and the scuffling had begun.

There was no real fight this time, not that Reaver had expected one, but what did occur left him breathless before they’d even began ― admittedly, seeing the fire spark up, spark back to life in eyes that had been just a touch too cold before, had knocked the wind out of him. And, admittedly, Sparrow looked… Very good above him.

He’d submitted to being taken apart on the floor, because the _where_ was not ever an issue to him and neither was the _when,_ and frankly? Sparrow would have made it worth it either way.

The bed that came afterwards _definitely_ made it worth it.

And, though he wouldn’t admit it and would likely be taking several _strong_ drinks on his way back to Bloodstone in order to ignore it, when he woke in the morning to find Sparrow still sleeping soundly, he’d felt… Something. He wasn’t sure what (a blatant lie he was telling himself, of course), but something… And something strong. Something old. Powerful and all-consuming.

(He’d felt _affection.)_

(Not just the fleeting, brief attraction he had for most people. Not just the fondness he felt for most of the ones he bedded, or the ones who could take him in a fair fight.)

(Genuine, heartbeat-increasing affection.)

(Affection at the hint of dark circles beneath closed eyes, at the mess of his silken blonde hair falling into his face and splayed over the pillow, at the lax expression on his sleeping face, at the soft parting of his lips, at the way he half-curled in on himself in his sleep with one leg brushing Reaver’s.)

(And, beneath the affection, _anger.)_

(Anger at the Will lines cutting through pristine skin like glowing scars, at the twin scars on his collarbone and just beneath his ribs through the center of his stomach, at the dark circles, at the fact it seemed to take booze and sex to make him sleep peacefully, at the way he half-curled in on himself as if trying to protect his stomach from further harm.)

(And he hated it.)

He’d gotten up before he could think on it too deeply (except no, he didn’t, because he probably laid there ten minutes watching the rise and fall of Sparrow’s chest and getting worked up about it) and slipped out of the bedroom, then the castle.

He shouldn’t linger too long.

(He shouldn’t stick around long enough to get attached. He hadn’t felt anything genuine like that for so long now that it couldn't possibly lead to anything good.)

Inevitably he made his way back.

When he arrived, Sparrow was already drinking, and clearly had been for some time.

He made some joke or another about how he was starting awfully early tonight, and it got him a roll of those cold blue eyes and a bottle of booze. They bantered as the two of them drank ― and Sparrow much more heavily than Reaver had been prepared for. All the talk about Sparrow made him out to be some paragon of goodness and purity, a Saint among men, and yet… Here he was. Knocking back whole bottles of Bowerstone Brown like no one’s business.

Sparrow seemed more talkative with a few bottles in him, though, and though the rasp faded off after a few sentences, there still remained a certain rumbling quality to his voice, an edge not helped by the fact that half the words coming out of his mouth were threats or dirty jokes.

Reaver liked it.

(Objectively, at least. It was nice to have his humor reciprocated for once by someone who wasn’t nearly as awful as he was. It was nice to hear Sparrow speaking to him, unbothered. But he hated knowing, and now knowing for _sure,_ that Sparrow may not be as awful, but he was every bit as damaged. Reaver knew escapism when he saw it.)

(He almost didn’t want to indulge, but… Who was he to deny Sparrow the very same escapes he allowed himself?)

So he asked if they should go upstairs, have some fun in that _heavenly_ soft bed, and was somewhat surprised when Sparrow’s initial response was a roll of his eyes. After the last couple of hours of dirty jokes, Reaver would have expected a more immediate agreement.

But then Sparrow was hauling him up by his collar once more and _kissing him._

Reaver was no stranger to a good, sloppy kiss ― to teeth and tongue and lips meeting and sliding against each other, nipping each other… But he’d certainly not kissed Sparrow before then, and Sparrow hadn’t so much as tried to kiss him either.

It didn’t settle terribly well in him to be kissed so suddenly, but he pushed the thought away. A kiss was a kiss.

It meant no more to him than it did to Sparrow, and Sparrow did not seem like it was all that important to him at all.

Sparrow was far more touchy this time, once they got started, and after the first kiss he didn’t seem to want to stop. Reaver indulged, of course, and when Sparrow acted, almost sarcastically, as if he felt very put-upon by Reaver’s teasing, he could only indulge even easier.

The unidentifiable feeling returned in the morning, stronger than the first time.

So Reaver left again.

He could admit to himself, in the privacy of his home, in the absence of anyone else, that he knew what the feeling was. That he knew, perhaps, why he felt it even.

He sat, exhausted and yet unable to sleep for the nightmares and an unwillingness to drown himself any further in liquor tonight than he already had, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Of course it would have been Sparrow, of course it would have been a Hero, that reawakened feelings so long buried.

Of course it would have been Sparrow, with a fury defiant settled deep in his bones, with eyes like the most gorgeous and undisturbed of morning skies, with hair like faded golden silk, with a fire that seemed nigh untameable in the initially brief time they had known each other. Of course it would have been Sparrow, who had all the spirit and viciousness of a white balverine.

Of course it would have been Sparrow, who was just as intense and all-consuming as Reaver himself.

And Reaver understood, suddenly, why people found him to be so irresistible ― seeing Sparrow, seeing how swiftly he'd been sucked into his interest and, ugh, _care_ for him… He knew it was a certain level of magnetism on both of their parts. They had big personalities, they were attractive, they were… Overwhelming to be around, he was sure.

He pressed his face into his hands, sighing ― nice as the full understanding was, he’d much prefer to keep away from anything of this kind.

It wasn’t as if anything would come of the attraction, whether it was reciprocated or not. Reaver was, after all, immortal, and Sparrow may well have a longer lifespan than most Albion citizens due to his bloodline but he was most certainly _not_ immortal. That aside, Reaver…

Well.

He knew he was, like many other citizens of Albion, easily swayed. And more so than anyone else, after a couple hundred-odd years of fucking about, he was easily _bored._ He knew how his interests worked, knew he was always seeking the new and the exciting. Even if there was a real depth of feeling for Sparrow, it wouldn’t last ― after enough time to truly get to know the man their relationship would have exhausted all of its shine, and Reaver’s mind would move on to newer things… Whether his heart wanted to or not.

And his heart would get over it.

Although, reasonably, he would admit he was interested to see how _that_ would end up ― getting close to Sparrow and then growing bored.

People had tried to kill him for less, certainly, and Sparrow knew _exactly_ how he maintained his immortality, unlike any of the others. Not to mention that Sparrow had spent ten years in the Spire, torturing people… Reaver didn’t doubt he knew plenty of ways to make him suffer for _that_ poor decision. He could very well make a game of it, he imagined; pose the idea to Sparrow that they could be somewhat exclusive for as long as Sparrow came up with new and exciting ways to keep him around.

But who knew if Sparrow wanted anything exclusive, and who knew if he’d agree even if he did.

It was frustrating, to say the least, and Reaver knew that to a great extent he had no one to blame but himself.

If he’d simply had better control, thought before he acted…

Ah, but that was the story of his life, wasn’t it? Truly.

If he’d had better control, if he’d thought before he acted… So many things would have gone differently.

But, he supposed, it was a blessing inasmuch as it was a curse ― had he controlled himself better, thought things through more intently, he’d never have met Sparrow.

And, masochist he was, he was very glad to have met him; even if knowing he felt something deeper for Sparrow than he’d felt for the better part of the last couple centuries, and that nothing would ever come of it, hurt him more than he cared to admit, he was glad. If it meant nothing else at all, it meant he still had a shred of normalcy in him.

… He couldn’t help wondering if, perhaps, he shouldn’t be clinging to it instead of letting it slip away like this.

If, perhaps, he shouldn’t make a bona fide attempt, for once in his immortal life, to just be a normal person again.

Even if it was temporary.

It would at least put a little bit of spice back into his life when it was over, he was certain.

A few years of settling, of letting himself be bored…

It really didn’t sound awful, if he was honest.

He dragged his hands down his face and sighed once more. Was he making a decision? Was he doing this?

He guessed he was.

He supposed he ought to get his ass back to the Castle, then.

He slipped out of bed, pulling on his clothes, and shipped out as soon as he was able, considering as he went how odd it was to be living in a home owned by someone else, especially when he for so long had been the owner.

Sparrow was such a little shit ― he loved it.

He arrived back at the castle enough days later that he’d had plenty of chances to rethink his decision and yet, hadn’t.

He’d given it more thought, certainly, more thought than he’d given anything in  _ years, _ but he couldn’t find a reason not to go ahead and go through with it. Sparrow deserved at least the distraction that Reaver’s presence would cause, if not the comfort of having a companion. In fact, some adventuring (if Sparrow still did any), might do Reaver some good as well. It could be a very good for both of them.

On his way, however, he’d heard talk of people calling Sparrow their  _ King, _ of Sparrow getting back to work around the country and seeming much happier for it, and he’d only felt himself be more convinced this was a good idea.

On arrival, he found Sparrow out in the gardens, talking to some peon or another ― or, rather, listening to them and sort of blinking and nodding along. He didn’t look terribly interested, or enthused, and as Reaver approached he could hear said peon whining about some beetles in their cellar. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and wondered how Sparrow kept such a terribly straight face and didn’t just laugh until he was left alone.

Sparrow made some signal with his hands to the idiot, and they thanked him profusely so Reaver figured it must have been an agreement to take care of the whole ‘beetle’ issue ― likely out of boredom, he imagined, or simply out of a desire to shut them up.

They scurried off and Sparrow turned to him as if prepared to simply politely wait until he was done talking as well, only to blink in obvious surprise when he realized who he was.

“Well hello again, my friend!” Reaver greeted, giving a mock bow, “I do hope you’re not too busy.”

Sparrow considered him for a moment, as if measuring how he thought he ought to reply, before snorting and looking around with a vague motion that seemed to say, “Busy with  _ what, _ exactly?”

“I thought not,” Reaver chuckled, “I don’t suppose you know of any adventure to be found at the moment? Killing beetles hardly sounds like a worthwhile use of such a luminary figure’s time.”

Sparrow snorted again, rolling his eyes, but they had a little bit of fire in them again today and he didn’t seem to be drunk at all so those were wins in Reaver’s book. “What can I say?” Sparrow rumbled, almost conspiratorially as he leaned a little closer so Reaver could actually hear him, “It’s that or sitting in the castle wasting  _ everyone’s _ time.”

“Not even a more exciting hunt to be found?” He asked, quirking a brow.

“Some balverines somewhere, I imagine.” Said the hero, almost thoughtfully, “Maybe a particularly bold bandit camp, or something.”

“Well, the beetles first, then.” Reaver suggested, “We can run off after the others soon enough.”

Sparrow’s lifted brow asked his question better than anything else could ― the ‘We?’ was unspoken, but loud and clear nonetheless.

“Thought I might accompany you,” He explained, and it wasn’t a lie, really, “See what all this ‘adventuring’ business is about. Though I imagine someone like you’s already found about all there is in this damnable country.”

The last bit was a joke, of course, and thankfully made Sparrow’s lips quirk even as he pressed them together to avoid laughing outright and turned his face away as if to hide the reaction. It was, Reaver would freely admit, very charming.

When Sparrow seemed to have gotten an adequate amount of control over the reaction, he turned back to Reaver, and he was still smiling. He sort of shrug-nodded as if to say that yeah, he pretty much had.

Then, jerking his head toward the road back to Bowerstone Market, he started off in that direction. Reaver found himself smiling as he followed.

“So,” He asked, on the way, “How many beetles?”

Sparrow snorted, slowing until he was keeping stride with the taller man rather than walking ahead at all, “Ten.”

“And that’s a crisis around here?” He let his brows lift, “When I was a boy ten was the average number to shoo out of the field. Hardly anything to worry about.”

Sparrow glanced up at him, humming.

“What?”

“How many centuries ago was that, exactly?”

“Two, nearly three.” He said, unbothered even if he was a little confused as to why he’d been asked, “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Sparrow smiled, turning his eyes forward again, nodding.

“So why ask?”

The blonde hummed again, sweeping a lock of hair behind his ear. For a moment he didn’t provide any obvious answer besides the hum, but then he did utter, “Things are different, I suppose.”

Reaver considered the words, unsure if they were a response or simply an off-hand comment. But, he imagined, it must be a response. “I suppose,” He agreed, “Still.  _ Ten _ beetles,” He scoffed, “I could kill fifty on my own as a mere child.”

Sparrow laughed, shoulders shaking a tad and a sound nearly escaping him rather than silent chuckles. He gave Reaver a semi-pointed look, regardless, and when Reaver raised his brow he only snorted and nudged him as he said, “You’re a Hero though, and an old one. Stronger than these guys.”

His voice didn’t seem to be losing the rasp today, and Reaver wondered if it hurt him at all to talk. He didn’t seem to be uncomfortable, but he  _ also _ didn’t seem eager to say any more than he had to. Shame there was no easy way to communicate without words ― sure, Reaver knew some manner of hand signs that could get a point across quickly, but they were old and primarily used by pirates anyway.

Then again, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt him to provide Sparrow with an easy way to communicate. There was a whole language, with minorly clunky grammar, but the basics would be easy for Sparrow and he’d likely catch on to the rest quickly.

… He would wait until they were alone.

“I suppose you’re right,” He mused, regardless, “It would have been a tad easier for someone of my calibre.”

“I could have managed that as a child too, I’m sure,” Sparrow commented, after a moment, a wry smile on his face and a slightly faraway look in his eyes, “Rose loved watching while I chased them around the fields, waving that stupid wooden sword around ― lost her  _ mind _ the first time I managed to kill one.”

“And Rose was…?”

Sparrow blinked, almost surprised, then shook his head. “My sister,” He said, “Older sister. Would have been about eight the first time I managed ― I was four.”

Reaver let himself whistle, a little impressed. It seemed to lighten the mild melancholy that had almost immediately begun to settle in, and Sparrow’s lips quirked back up.

“I don’t recall how old I was, the first time,” He admitted, “But I remember my father was furious that I’d used his crossbow for it. Something about me being too young, how the recoil should have knocked me right on my little ass.”

Sparrow snorted, “My Pa was proud, but my Ma honest-to-God fainted when she found out. I felt awful.” He paused, giving Reaver a meaningful look before saying, “Didn’t stop me, though.”

Reaver laughed. “Ah, boys.”

Sparrow nodded his agreement.

They came upon the Market, then, and Sparrow seemed to withdraw a little almost instantly. The smile dropped, and he did not seem eager to speak  _ at all _ if Reaver was reading him right. Too many people, Reaver guessed, or something about this place made him uncomfortable.

But, eyeing the group of people that seemed to come out of the woodwork to swarm Sparrow, he guessed it may be a combination of both.

Sparrow pointedly did not stop to talk to any of the crowd, simply continuing to walk and not meeting the eyes of anyone ― staring straight ahead.   
Reaver couldn’t help sending a dirty look toward the group.

Not jealous, or angry, not really. Just annoyed ― Sparrow clearly wanted nothing to do with any of them, and yet they were here. Following behind.

“Do they always do that?” He asked, careless of whether or not they could hear him.

Sparrow, face carefully blank, pressed his lips together into a firm line and gave what may very well be the most covert nod that Reaver had ever seen.

Reaver snored, unable to stop himself. In all his years, he’d certainly had groups of people fawning over him, following him around while he worked, but seeing it happen to Sparrow made it almost annoying to even think about. Then again, Reaver supposed  _ he _ had lived for the attention. Sparrow didn’t seem concerned with it, nor eager for it.

And, Reaver guessed, Sparrow was intelligent, and he figured he must know the attention was… Conditional, and fleeting.

No use in getting used to it or dependent on it.

They arrived at the cellar at last, and Sparrow sighed in relief as he pulled the cellar door open and motioned Reaver in first. Reaver went, of course, pausing to wait for him as he very pointedly closed the door above him. He shook himself out once he was out of the apparent fanclub’s line of sight, grumbling something Reaver didn’t catch, then turned to him and stepped down to his level.

“The people of Albion,” Reaver let himself snort, derisive, “So obsessive. So easily swayed.”

“Exactly why I don’t care for their affections.” Sparrow grumbled, rolling his eyes, “Rather not deal with someone who could lose feelings for me if I didn’t speak to them, or went to clear out some overpopulation of balverines. Which means I’ll likely die alone, but I always sort of anticipated that one.” He snorted, mood oddly enough seeming to lift as he took his next steps down into the cellar, “Besides, long as I’m single I can screw around.”

“Cheers to that,” Reaver chuckled, “You’re talkative when you’re drunk or irritated, you know that?”

Sparrow paused, cocking his head with a considering look. “I… Suppose I am. Never thought about it. Not annoying you too much, is it?”

The arch of his brow, the smug lift of his lips, told Reaver he was not at all concerned with the answer. So Reaver returned the look, more or less, and clapped him on the shoulder, “Not at all. Keeps things interesting, learning about each other, doesn’t it?”

“Oh you  _ must _ be bored,” Snorted Sparrow, but he didn’t seem displeased.

“Aren’t we all?”

“Oh, we are.” Sparrow simply shook his head, after that, “Let’s get this over with so I can get into a real fight with something.”

“As you wish,”

And they took out the ten beetles in under thirty seconds ― in fact, Sparrow had already shot seven of them before Reaver even thought to help, and Reaver only got off one shot in total.

“Impressive,” He let himself say, “You’d have made a good replacement for me, I think.”

Sparrow snorted, pushing his hair behind his ear again, “I could make a decent replacement for all of you, I’d think ― you and Hammer, at least. Not enough books to teach me everything  _ Garth _ knows.”

“Knew,” Reaver corrected, “He’s dead.”

The blonde eyed him a moment, then said, “No offense to you, or your ability to kill other Heroes, but I highly doubt he’s dead.”

Reaver opened his mouth, then closed it. It was a fair point, he supposed ― it wasn’t as if he’d stuck around. And, of course, Garth was just as stubborn as any other Hero, if not moreso, and if he  _ recalled, _ the very Hero in front of him had outright cheated death twice already. Once a shot through the gut, once through the heart, both of which should have killed him, seeing as the scars went all the way through to his back. The one through his stomach had come out his  _ spine, _ from what Reaver had seen.

Even Heroes didn’t usually survive that without consequences, and yet…

“Fair enough.” He conceded, “I suppose we Heroes do have a habit of death not sticking.”

Inevitably they  _ did  _ have to leave the cellar, but thankfully the peon was waiting for them and the crowd of admirers had scattered already.

Reaver managed to stand, politely stonefaced, until the peon was gone, and then leaned in to Sparrow to make a joke at their expense, which at least got him to crack another smile.

They headed back to the castle together, and they made plans on where to go and seek a decent hunt. Reaver also spent the rest of the afternoon teaching Sparrow the basics of the pirate hand-signs.

Sparrow was a quick study, and it was…

Nice.


	3. Sparrow

Setting out to seek an adventure with Reaver right at his shoulder was already odd without the addition of the hand signs that Reaver had spent yesterday afternoon teaching him, or the fact that Reaver had been the one to seek him out and suggest this. With that addition, he’d say that it strayed closer to “surreal”. Like…  _ Very _ surreal.

But Reaver had, as usual, been honest about his motives ― he was bored, eager to see what “the whole adventuring thing” was about. Who else would he ask to accompany him except Sparrow? Or, rather, who else would he ever ask to accompany? He seemed rather more fond of Sparrow than any of the other Heroes; not a surprise, necessarily, when one considered that he claimed to have killed Garth (with whom he hadn’t even gotten along with in the brief time he’d known him) and hadn’t spent near enough time around Hammer to even have an opinion on.

Not to mention, neither Garth nor Hammer did a whole lot of adventuring.

Sparrow didn’t, either, these days, but the flutter in his heart when Reaver suggested going adventuring together had certainly given him reason to  _ want _ to begin adventuring again aside from the boredom and the feeling of uselessness.

So he and Reaver walked patiently to the edge of the city outside Bowerstone, silent ― Sparrow because he didn’t much feel like talking around all those cloying, devoted people, and Reaver likely out of an attempt not to get a mob chasing him ―, and it wasn’t until they were walking down the road toward Bower Lake that Sparrow found himself smirking. He felt… Energized. He hadn’t had a drink in a few days, and sure, he’d  _ intended _ to have one last night, and was definitely going to have one or two tonight, but without the fog of a hangover he was…

Oh, he felt a little playful, really.

… Or maybe it was because he was out of the city, out of the castle, alone with Reaver who he couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t sort of in love with.

Regardless.

He nudged the pirate, lips still pulled up, and pointed to the only tree on this stretch of road, still almost at the horizon at the moment. “... Race you.” He uttered.

Reaver looked a little taken aback, but then grinned. “You’re on. Your mark?”

Sparrow grinned back at him, and nodded.

He counted off, rasping more than he’d like, and only after he’d said ‘go,’ and Reaver had started forward did he dig his feet in and  _ book it _ down the winding dirt road. He overtook Reaver within seconds, catching a glimpse of the man’s shocked expression before he heard a startled curse. Reaver caught back up to him quickly, and he laughed ― loud and happy, the realest laugh he’d heard from himself in years. Reaver mirrored it, and it made his heart fucking  _ soar _ to hear the man enjoying himself.

He pushed himself a little harder, a little faster, and his lungs were burning long before he and Reaver, continually catching up to and overtaking each other, ever reached the tree.

In fact, they were burning badly enough that he had a hard time catching back up when they finally neared it ― Reaver was nearly there, though he was looking a little winded himself. And Sparrow, who was still having more fun than he thought he’d had in his  _ life _ just running, had an idea.

A devious idea.

He sucked in the deepest breath he could, braced himself, and managed one final push. One final sprint.

And, reaching Reaver, he pounced, feet away from the tree.

Reaver shrieked, undignified, and they hit the ground and rolled. Sparrow pinned him, but lacking the proper amount of preparation for that result, he was easily rolled and pinned beneath the man instead.

The pirate above him was flushed, still grinning, breathing hard, and Sparrow found it hard to breath for more than just the obvious reason even as he grinned back.

“Cheater.” Reaver said, teasingly disapproving.

Sparrow gave a winded laugh.

He wanted so badly to lean up and kiss Reaver. Or pull him down for a kiss.

Just.

He wanted a kiss.

Reaver looked so… Soft when he smiled like that. Like another person, almost. Like someone Sparrow might really have a chance with.

For the moment, he decided to let himself pretend, and he threw an arm around Reaver’s neck, making him blink, and dragged him into a kiss. Reaver startled a little, jolting, but thank  _ God _ he kissed back after a brief second. It was soft, languid, and Sparrow’s heart pounded. He just had to hope this didn’t ruin anything, and that he could come up with a convincing excuse for why he’d thought that was a good idea.

When Reaver drew back from the kiss, Sparrow felt his cheeks heat.

“You always kiss like that to make up for being a rotten cheater and a sore loser?” Reaver teased, lifting his brows and looking taken aback but not necessarily displeased.

“... Maybe I’m still cheating.” He chose to say, now that he’d sort of caught his breath, as he dragged Reaver into another kiss, flipped them, then swiftly clambered off of him and stumbled the last two or three feet to the tree.

Reaver’s affronted gasp and the sound of him scrambling to his feet behind him as he went made him laugh.

He had reached the tree by the time Reaver caught back up, and he was admittedly very surprised to be grabbed and pressed against it. He felt his face heat once more, though it had scarcely stopped burning to begin with, and shifted when Reaver pinned his wrists to the tree beside his head.

“You’re  _ awful,” _ Reaver said, but he said it with a fond and joking air.

He could only grin in reply, and was surprised ― though pleasantly ― when Reaver pressed another kiss to his lips. Just as soft and slow as the other. No heat, no rush. Just the soft slide of their lips together, and Sparrow starting to relax against the trunk of the tree.

When Reaver pulled back this time, his face had gone very soft, all hint of his usual snark or deviousness gone. Sparrow wanted to see that face on him for the rest of eternity ― if only when they were alone together as they were now. If only when no one else was looking. It could be like, his own personal little treat.

Being looked at like he meant something.

By someone who wouldn’t give that look to anyone else.

Even if Reaver probably did give it to other people. Even if Reaver was probably only humoring him.

But he liked to think Reaver probably wouldn’t bother to  _ act _ if he was just humoring him, and that if nothing else he was having fun right now. He didn’t have to give a shit about Sparrow to have fun, and he held tight to the notion that maybe this was how Reaver looked when he was having fun. How he acted when he was having fun.

“You’re incredibly tactile, I’ve noticed,” Reaver commented, not unkindly, as he withdrew.

Sparrow’s grin turned sheepish, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. He couldn't come up with an answer to that that didn’t require outright speaking, and it seemed that for the moment his ability to speak had fled him.

“I imagine you don’t get touched much outside of our occasional adventures and the occasional fight, though,” Reaver continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “And, really, who could say no to  _ me _ touching them anyway?”

Sparrow snorted, though he was right on both counts, and elbowed him. Reaver only grinned.

“We’ve all but wasted all of our energy for the moment, as well,” The pirate said as he began to walk once more, and Sparrow followed swiftly, “So we’ll have to go painfully slowly until you’re up for another run.”

Sparrow rolled his eyes, elbowing him again, dry and cracked voice managing to say, “Please. We’ll be waiting on  _ you, _ old man.”

Reaver made another affronted noise, still mostly playful, but didn’t argue it outright.

They ended up getting into it with a small group of bandits nearing nightfall, but between the two of them it didn’t last terribly long. A well-placed shock from Sparrow, a few pulls of the trigger from Reaver, and one instinctive slash of the sword from Sparrow, and the bandits were felled and Sparrow spent a moment searching them for anything of any use. All he found was a nearby wagon full of booze. He raised an eyebrow, examining the booze and finding it to be of surprisingly high calibre, and lifted a bottle in Reaver’s general direction, laughing disbelievingly.

Reaver whistled appreciatively, “We may have to stash that somewhere.”

“I know a place.” Sparrow uttered, rather conspiratorially, and grabbed the shafts of the cart with a mild worry of what had happened to whatever had been pulling this cart beforehand, and again began the grueling walk down the road.

The brisk pace of the walk he and Reaver had kept for most of the day had them back in Bower Lake a lot faster than normal ― it was punishing, and he was winded, but they came upon Thag’s old cabin easily enough. He’d had the place cleaned up, even rented it out for a time, but the last tenant had moved out right after he bought the castle and it had sat empty since then ― his most recent excursion to this place had been barely a week ago, and it was still empty then. It should still be empty now.

Arriving there after some fighting with the cart (and playful fighting with Reaver), he shrugged the door open and pulled the cart in.

Place was definitely in better shape than it had been when he bought it ten years ago, that was for sure. Soft bed, one he’d hand-picked before he moved his first tenant in, nice furniture… He’d even had the place sort of rebuilt after he bought the castle ― had the outer walls fixed up, an extra room added.

“How many homes do you own, exactly?” Reaver asked, curiously, as he reclined on the bed.

“Enough.” He grunted, stashing a good deal of the booze in the chest against the wall.

Reaver snorted, but didn’t argue that.

They shared a meal sitting on the bed even though there was enough room here now for a table, and they sat there drinking like fiends for a good deal of the evening.

He ended up on his back, under Reaver once again, gasping and panting, looking up into cornflower blue eyes as Reaver fucked him relentlessly. He was drunk enough that he had little memory of them getting to that point, but he also didn’t really care when it had happened. He was just enjoying it happening in the first place. He could get used to this, even if it left a bitterness in him after Reaver inevitably left.

But this time, Reaver wouldn’t be leaving.

He was in this for the long-haul and Sparrow was excited.

He fell asleep after they finished, with a leg thrown over Reaver’s and his face tucked against the man’s chest.

* * *

As he expected, Reaver was still there in the morning. Already awake and out of bed, sure, but still  _ there. _

“What’s on he agenda today,  _ mon petit canard?” _ Asked the Hero of Skill, when he realized Sparrow was awake.

Sparrow grunted, at first, scrubbing at his face and taking a moment to comb out his hair and put it back into a ponytail. “... To Brightwall, then Westcliff. Balverine problem.”

Reaver nodded, and they had a quiet breakfast before Sparrow managed to wake up fully and they dragged themselves out of the cabin and back off down the road. Unfortunately the amount of traders wandering the road kept Sparrow mostly silent ― not that he necessarily minded. It was just… Kinda nice to be able to talk.

But Reaver was a far more talkative sort, so he filled the walk through Bower Lake to Brightwood with chatter ― stories of the past, mostly, and jokes at the expense of some of the Roma living in the Camp who were particularly bold in their approaches to  _ both _ of them. Not even particularly  _ scathing _ jokes, either, just off-handed little barbs wondering if they truly had nothing better to do with their time.

The Roma were pretty thick-skinned, though, so the few who he actually said that to the face of just laughed and told him that no, they didn’t.

Sparrow grinned and bore it until they got to Brightwood, then gave Reaver a suffering look and rolled his eyes. Reaver laughed. “Not so adoring of your adoring fans, eh?”

He signed “Tired” and rolled his eyes again, which only made Reaver laugh once more. But he didn’t have any smart comments to make, so Sparrow imagined he probably understood. He was, after all, old enough to have probably experienced attention burn-out a few times. Even if he did seem to  _ adore _ the attention.

The walk through Brightwood was quiet in a different way than through Bower Lake, and Sparrow didn’t mind at all. It was comfortable, and after a while he decided he may as well fill the walk to Westcliff from there with some kind of noise.

He pulled out his lute and began to play on the long winding road to the Balverine-infested region.

He didn’t sing ― didn’t know any songs. But Reaver hummed along, looking a little lost and wistful.

And Sparrow simply kept playing until the sky began to darken a tad, going grey as the fog rolled in. It was a song he remembered from his parents. The lyrics were long forgotten, but the melody stayed with him. There was a memory of his father playing his own lute, sitting before the fireplace late in the evening, strumming away as his mother sang along in some language he didn’t know.

Given Reaver’s wistful look, he’d say it wasn’t unlikely the pirate had a similar set of memories.

Maybe he really did have a heart somewhere in that cavernous chest of his.

But inevitably, he had to stop, carefully putting his lute away and straining his ear for the sound of balverines. A distant howl, and he shared a look with Reaver. The pirate grinned.

They headed off into the mist and they spent the whole of the afternoon and most of the evening tracking down (or being tracked by) the balverines and getting into joint-pain inducing fights with large groups of them. It was a wonder anything got done in this region, really. So many balverines, so little time.

And given the ordeal that it was for Sparrow and Hammer, and now Sparrow and Reaver, to kill them, he didn’t imagine there were many people out here attempting to exterminate this particular set of threats. In fact… He thought that may be why there were so many. A couple well-meaning citizens trying to help the balverine problem instead of bothering him or the guards with it probably got ― pardon his vocabulary ― their  _ shit wrecked. _

“I imagine we’ll be camping tonight,” Mused Reaver, as Sparrow cleaned the blood from his blade.

Sparrow hummed, wracking his brain for anywhere outside of the actual town where they could safely stay the night ― like every other town with perhaps the exception of Oakfield and Bloodstone, Westcliff was full of adoring fans who would happily bother him all night even with Reaver there. Given the close proximity to the Crucible and to Mad Dog and Murray, he’d prefer to steer as clear as he could for now, thanks. This wasn’t the trip where he reclaimed his title and took the top prize.

Not at all.

Not with Reaver around.

No thank you.

He wanted Reaver’s attention but… Not like that.

Reaver already applauded his ability to slaughter, he didn’t need Reaver to see just how quickly and effectively he could do it firsthand.

Still. Nowhere he could think of right off hand that would be in town or potentially occupied.

He grimaced, and Reaver’s answering nose-scrunch told him he understood why.

They found a small grove of trees that was mostly off the beaten path and Sparrow spent a moment erecting a makeshift tent with some twine and spare blankets tied to the tree branches. Mostly to keep the rain off them if those clouds broke any time soon, if he was honest.

He went ahead and started a small fire in the middle of their tall tent, and Reaver all but collapsed into his bedroll. He began speaking again, then, regaling Sparrow with yet another of his undoubtably tall tales about his time as Pirate King. Sparrow merely smiled and listened, of course, because even if Reaver was full of shit it was nice to not be doing this in total silence.

Dinner dealt with, to Reaver’s clear surprise (and delight), Sparrow reclined on his own bedroll.

“How about I teach you a few more of those signs, hm?” Reaver asked, when they’d finished eating, “And if you feel much like talking afterwards, perhaps I’ll get to hear a few of your escapades that haven’t been inflated or deflated by gossip.”

Sparrow laughed, but agreed with a raspy, “Sure, sure.”

Had he mentioned before how much he appreciated Reaver going out of his way like this? Teaching him another way to communicate when his voice either refused to cooperate or he merely didn’t feel like using it. Teaching him without even having been asked.

It was nice.

A few more signs under his belt, he took a swig of beer, cleared his throat, and began by telling Reaver about Thag.

And Reaver listened as intently as he’d listened to him, though he did provide commentary as they went. It was…

Fuck, it was nice.

Really nice.

… He needed to extend this trip as long as he could.

Nothing like a full tour of Albion to show Reaver what the whole “adventuring” thing was about, eh?

He’d broach the subject in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! i had a lot of fun writing it - the fluffy-ish break from angst with these two was very nice after all the angst I've written recently lmao
> 
> definitely going to be revisiting a scene or two in-depth from Reaver's POV next chapter because i feel like he was Feeling in a couple of them and it'll be fun to see just what he was Feeling
> 
> this chapter officially helped me complete my New Years Resolution from 2019 - boost my wordcount here on AO3 until my total wordcount since 2017 is 1 Million (or more) words! I've written almost 660K this year alone, and this was the chapter that took out the last 2500 i needed to hit 1 Mil - and then some!


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